Midsummer Merriment
by Eirian Erisdar
Summary: Midsummer festival on Coruscant brings merriment and adventure. Featuring jellied Aqualish sea-lizards, a whole lot of sand, and unexpected sentiment. Daddy!Qui, NewlyApprenticed!Obi, and Tahl thrown in for good measure. What could possibly go wrong? Fluff and humour abound as three Jedi celebrate midsummer - with impeccable Jedi reserve, of course.


**Hello there. As summer is on its way, I present to all of you my newest short fic. This will be a two, at most a three-shot, with oodles of fluff and humour – and it WILL be only three chapters long, because I originally planned it as a oneshot and it got too long. Who doesn't love the Qui, Obi, and Tahl combination? Set two months into Obi-Wan's apprenticeship; could fit into my popular story **_**The Silent Song**_, **but can be read entirely separately. Enjoy.**

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_Midsummer Merriment_

_By Eirian Erisdar_

_For XxNeonShadowsxX, who wanted more of The Pot_

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Monument Plaza _reeks_ of midsummer fever.

Set on Umate, the highest peak of Coruscant, the plaza holds a single pinnacle of black rock at its centre, the summit of Umate itself. This alone attracts hundreds of thousands of tourists, each touching bare stone for what perhaps might be the first and last time in their lives; Coruscanti do not know the true meaning of _ground._ On most days, Monument Plaza is busy enough; but the annual crowds of Midsummer Festival are a whole another matter entirely.

The hordes push and pull and flow about the pillared colonnades like a living river of sentient species, dancing with the quick-changing riptide of fevered emotion. In a corner, a pair of Nautolan parents soothe their screaming brood as a Graan toy-peddler seizes upon this chance to pile his wares upon them; a scant few paces away, two lovestruck teens peform a traditional Togrutan dance to the completely contrasting syncopated synth-chords that blast out of a six-foot tall subwoofer; there, weaving eel-like between the countless currents, a Zygerrian pickpocket plies his one-way trade; by the durasteel stage where some senator or another had murmured a word or two scant minutes earlier, a rowdy bunch of spice-traders move seamlessly onto the sixty-eighth verse of the popular space shanty _The Ballad of Captain Neo-Shadow_, their song somewhat impaired by their various levels of inebriation.

And there, right at the centerpoint of the fault-lines in the Force: a hollering Twi'Lek food vendor, a serene Jedi Master, and rather confused padawan.

It is a scene primed for explosion; the Force shimmers with humor, and waits for the spark.

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"Young man! May I interest you in a jellied Aqualish sea-lizard?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi barely refrains from recoiling at the glistening translucent _thing-on-a-stick_ that the middle-aged Twi'Lek street vendor shoves in his face. Newly minted padawan or not, Obi-Wan is a firm believer that duty has its limits – and he draws the line at _sea-lizards_, thank you very much. As it is, he takes an involuntary step backwards, his short braid swinging as his back collides with something warm and solid. Heat flushes his face a moment later as two broad hands settles on his shoulders, steadying him.

A musical chuckle dissipates into the Force, deepening Obi-Wan's blush of mortification.

Qui-Gon Jinn seems wholly unruffled by his padawan's clumsy collision with his stomach, standing as firmly – and appearing no less imposing – as any one of the larmalstone statues that dotted the plaza around them. His voice is flawless velvet. "What do we have here?"

Eager to please his would-be customers, the vendor somehow further amplifies his voice to shout above the other twenty thousand or so people in plaza around them. "Jellied Aqualish sea-lizards!" he fairly screams in the Jedi Master's face. "Imported from Ando! The perfect midsummer snack for the peckish! Sir, may I interest you in sampling – Oh stars above, Master Jedi!" He gapes unashamedly at the sleek silver cylinder glinting at the edge of Qui-Gon's cloak, his eyes bugged in awed horror.

The corner of Obi-Wan's mouth twitches sardonically.

Qui-Gon – who had retained a diplomat's expression of pleasant interest throughout the street vendor's small speech – spares his padawan a single burning glance of warning before giving the vendor a conciliatory smile. "Two, please," he intones, cheerily ignoring Obi-Wan's look of betrayal. "May I inquire as to the cost?"

"No charge!" the Twi'Lek practically shouts, even as his eyes widen in panic. "In gratitude for, um, your security work here at the festival…and…ah, that is to say…I'm not going to be arrested, am I?"

"Have you done anything to warrant your arrest?" Qui-Gon returns coolly.

"No!" the sweating vendor yelps, a bit too quickly. "Here!" Two slimy, frozen forms speared on sticks are somehow shoved into the tall Jedi's hand a moment before their seller performs an excellent impression of a firebeetle melting back into its swarm.

Obi-Wan's eyes narrow in suspicion as he frowns at where the street vendor disappeared into the crowds of revellers. Unconsciously, he gives his end of the training bond a tug – he had been doing that quite regularly since it had formed, as though to reassure himself it was still there – only to start in surprise as his master responds with a rich laugh of amusement that echoes lightly in their shared mindscape.

"Fret not, padawan-mine," Qui-Gon chuckles. "That vendor is most likely a former black market dealer of some sort. Mostly harmless, now that he is pursuing a morally sound means of supporting himself. Eat, padawan. Three hours' worth of security duty must have made you hungry."

Obi-Wan's expression had remained vaguely doubtful, but it morphs quickly into apprehension when he is handed one of the dubiously edible sea-lizard kebabs. The creature had been jellied with webbed limbs and long tail set in strange positions, as though it had been caught mid-swim and flash-frozen as it wriggled pathetically to free itself.

It appears…revolting.

"To your good health, padawan," Qui-Gon says jovially, _annoyingly,_ as he tucks into his own serving with a horrible, squelching mouthful.

Obi-Wan, unfortunately, does not possess his master's durasteel stomach or…_refined_…palate. Supressing his gag reflex, he cautiously rips off a leg between itching teeth and swallows the slippery limb whole.

Impossibly, it somehow tastes even _worse_ than it had looked. Obi-Wan finds himself suddenly grateful he cannot vocalise the words that rise in his gagging throat; _Gundark turd_ is the least offensive of the terms, and Qui-Gon is hardly one to take kindly to an explosive recital of curses.

Qui-Gon takes kindly to his young, inexperienced, green-in-the-face apprentice and polishes off the second lizard with blatant relish.

Aware that even _watching_ sea-lizards being eaten somehow causes his stomach to flip uncomfortably, Obi-Wan focuses instead on the crowds around them, grasping for the vibrancy of the Force. His stomach still gives a rebellious flip, but a moment later, a familiar presence has materilised out of the cacophony of sound and colour, like a sudden nebula blossoming on a spinning map of stars.

Obi-Wan smiles in eager anticipation.

Alerted by the spike of mischief in his padawan's Force-signature, Qui-Gon turns, opens his mouth, and–

"Stars and galaxies, Qui, what are you _eating_?" Tahl Uvain's light voice takes on a lilting tone of disbelief.

Qui-Gon blithely swallows his last mouthful. "Aqualish sea–"

"No, I've decided I'd rather not know," the Noorian Jedi cuts him off. "_Do_ tell me you didn't drag your padawan into sampling this…specimen."

"Gag reflex training."

"Abuse of power," Tahl retorts.

Trying unsuccessfully to dampen his grin, Obi-Wan offers Tahl a deep bow, earning him a warm pat on the shoulder in return. Perhaps he should not have then pretended not to notice Qui-Gon's admonishing pull on their bond; Obi-Wan senses a brief flash of displeasure from the older Jedi before his padawan braid is caught in a firm, reprimanding tug. Qui-Gon Jinn is, apparently, perfectly willing to execute a physical reminder should a mental warning fail.

Much to Obi-Wan's gratitude, Tahl aborts the looming threat of war with the bland inquiry, "How was security duty?"

"We utilised it as a training opportunity," Qui-Gon supplies. "The Force is convoluted among such a large and diverse gathering; Obi-Wan did well in both widening focussing his awareness of our surroundings."

The unexpected praise sets a warm glow in Obi-Wan's belly.

He raises his head to find both Jedi Masters watching him strangely. It takes a moment for him to realise Master Uvain had spoken, and he had not responded. Yet another blush tinges his cheeks; they surely must have noticed his lack of mindfulness. He bows a quick apology and plasters his trademark, earnest, _I'm-willing-to-learn_ expression on his face. It is usually enough to mollify even the most severe of crèche masters, who find it somewhat…cute.

And it is apparently effective enough, for Tahl smiles and repeats gently, "Did you enjoy yourself, Obi-Wan?"

As he scribbles a quick answer onto the square of flimsy he always carries with him, Obi-Wan notices Qui-Gon's raised eyebrow. He makes a mental note that _earnest-open-cute_ look is apparently wasted on the tall Jedi.

_Yes, Master Uvain, _he writes. The Aurebesh lettering flows out of his stylus like sable silk. _This was a new experience for me, and quite enjoyable. Were you assigned to the second security shift, Master?_

"Oh, no," Tahl answers, returning the flimsy to its owner. "I was fortunate enough to be skipped over for Festival security this midsummer. When I heard you two were assigned here, though, I thought I would bring a treat." A soft smile graces her features as her companions' Force signatures flicker with surprise. "Follow me," she says, her smile turning secretive as she turns to weave her way through the crowd.

As he paces quickly after Tahl, Obi-Wan prods at Qui-Gon's shields, and is somewhat gratified to sense that his master is just as unknowing as he is about this matter.

The lithe Noorian Jedi leads them to the edge of the plaza, where a number of crisply uniformed attendants oversee the most exclusive private-aircar parking spaces. Obi-Wan ignores the painfully bright line of speeders, searching for the subdued grey of an official Temple aircar – only for his jaw to drop open when Tahl halts by a four-seater open-top speeder painted an attractive shade of midnight blue. After a span of seconds, he snaps mouth shut again, and glances questioningly at his master.

Outwardly, Qui-Gon's aquiline features are serenely tranquil as ever; but a twinkle in his sky-blue eyes and the curve at the corner of his mouth says otherwise.

"Did you bribe old Half-Moonsing for this, Tahl?" he comments humouredly. "I can't imagine him assigning you the best speeder out of the transport pool for any other reason."

"I asked nicely," Tahl blithely replies. "You should attempt that once or twice, Qui. I _do _wonder how you complete diplomatic assignments at times…thank you," she murmurs as she accepts the ignition chip from a servitor droid. The vibrant stripes of her green-gold eyes flash with delight as she turns to the other two Jedi. "Get in."

Obi-Wan notices Qui-Gon _very significantly _does not pursue the matter any further. The next moment, the older Jedi has vaulted over the railing in one seamless movement, uncaring for the sudden drop between the duracrete dock edge and the hovering speeder. Tahl completes the jump with even more grace, folding herself into the pilot's seat with barely an effort. Obi-Wan pauses on the edge of the platform, a small frown creasing his forehead. There is something not quite…_right_ about this; the speeder is no doubt a beautiful machine, all sleek lines and glossy paint, but it is not _traditional, _and certainly not _quiet_. Really, it is about as removed from Jedi reserve as transport goes, save for illegally-built pod-racers.

"Padawan?"

Qui-Gon's questioning gaze jerks the musing padawan out of his philosophical wanderings. Obi-Wan dithers for a moment, reaches into his pocket for flimsy and stylus, and–

"Qui, move over to the back," Tahl says suddenly. "Obi-Wan can sit by me."

"…I'm sorry?"

"I'm the pilot, and I say your padawan gets shotgun, so climb back there. Mind The Pot."

"The Pot?" Qui-Gon's cloak skirls in the wind as he leans over to peer into the back seat. Sure enough, stowed securely in the footwell is a large steel pot, with a separate hover-hamper tucked in next to it.

Obi-Wan grins. The large metal canister is a tradition of sorts between Qui-Gon and Tahl; once a week, one of the two Jedi Masters would cook dinner in said canister (affectionately and unimaginatively dubbed The Pot) and carry it over to the other's quarters, where they would eat together. Obi-Wan had been summarily included in this weekly ritual since the beginning of his apprenticeship to Qui-Gon.

"It's part of the surprise," Tahl says, smiling dangerously. "Qui, get a move on. Obi-Wan, step in."

To their credit, both male members of their little group comply immediately.

As Tahl guns the engine and sends them into a smooth arc down the side of Umate, Obi-Wan reflects that the soft synth-suede upholstery of the passenger seat is not so bad after all. And he cannot help but open his mouth in silent laughter as the first flicker of wind brushes through his hair.

The engine roars as the speeder slips into an empty airstream, entirely bypassing the official air-lanes. Obi-Wan shifts minutely in his seat, vague hope leaking past his shields…

Qui-Gon begins to chuckle. "Tahl…"

"Oh, shush. I have an official permit. You don't think I would indulge in illegality in front of your impressionable padawan, would you?"

_No,_ Obi-Wan contemplates, his own grin spreading. _That's solely Master Qui-Gon's privilege._ Bound by silence as Obi-Wan is, Qui-Gon could notpossibly have heard the thought; and yet a moment later, the Jedi's broad hand gently swats across the top of Obi-Wan's head. The sentiment must have transferred, somehow.

"Scamp."

The affectionate word is torn away by the increasing onrush of wind, drawn into laugh that echoes into the Force and flows through their veins in a sheer torrent of exhilaration.

The speeder dances on the wild, eddying air, down the falling levels of the Manarai Mountains, and on towards the glimmer of silver on the horizon that is Coruscant's Western Sea.

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**I shall be back with more promptly. And for my usual readers: fear not! I shall update **_**The Silent Song**_** soon. I'm sorry that's been lagging; I've been busy with studies. Reviews are much appreciated, and will be rewarded with virtual cookies. And no, they aren't flavoured with Aqualish sea-lizards.**


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